


half the iron, twice the wine

by eyemoji



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, Vampires, a very specific au where the institute takes in vampires, and martin is human and has been working there for years, in a wine way, it's really just very sappy and gay, uhhh what else, vampire!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: In retrospect, the wine was probably a bad idea.Flirting with the other staff is never a good idea. Doubly so when the staff member currently in question isn’t human and you’re steadfast in your decision to remain that way. Triply,tragicallyso when the staff member is Jonathan Sims.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 339





	half the iron, twice the wine

**Author's Note:**

> this probably would do just fine rated T, but apparently i have victorian sensibilities and this passed the blush test.  
> this is set in an extremely self-indulgent vampire au that is only extrapolated on slightly in this specific work. as a whole there needs to be more wlw in this tag so i might do a followup with dasira or wtgfs; haven't decided which yet.

In retrospect, the wine was probably a bad idea. 

Flirting with the other staff is never a good idea. _Doubly_ so when the staff member currently in question isn’t human and you’re steadfast in your decision to remain that way. _Triply, tragically_ so when the staff member is Jonathan Sims.

Here’s the thing. Martin hadn’t meant to _flirt._ It had started innocently enough, a few months back, when Jon had cornered him in the break room typically reserved for the Magnus Institute’s human employees and asked, in that lovely dark, brusque voice of his, if Martin would help him-- practice. 

  
  
  


Martin had been terrified. There weren’t actually any rules against vampiric employees in the basement break room; it’s just that, save for certain outgoing types-- Tim Stoker came to mind-- those vampires that made use of the Magnus Institute’s services tended not to spend much time with the few human employees the Institute made use of. Or interact with them at all, really. Martin had been at the Institute for almost seven years before Jon came to him; in that time he’d accumulated… maybe six people who consistently remembered his name? Definitely only two he’d consider friends. And Sasha wasn’t a vampire.

All this to say that Jon being _in_ the human break room, let alone coming there to talk to Martin specifically, had been more than a small surprise.

After his initial shock-- Martin, startled, had jerked up from where he was brewing his tea, smacked the back of his head on the cabinets above, then proceeded to curse like a sailor for a solid twenty seconds, stopping only once he’d lifted his head and locked eyes with a very unimpressed Jon-- he’d asked, cautiously, what exactly Jon meant. He’d run a hand through his mess of curls, then, already feeling his face beginning to turn a brilliant fire-engine red. Jon had watched him do it, that same expression of light distaste scrawled on his face. For a moment, Martin had been sure that any second, he’d turn on his heel and withdraw the-- offer? Request?

Definitely a request, he’d decided, once Jon started tripping over his tongue trying to explain.

“Well--” he’d started, “He-- That is, E- Elias told me to- well, I, I mean--”

He’d taken a breath then to compose himself.

“As you may have heard, I’ve- I’m not yet considered _up to standards_ -” and here his lip curled, ever so slightly- “enough to be able to interact with general customers.”

Martin _had_ heard, in fact. It had contributed to the initial terror when Jon had cornered him. What he’d said instead was:

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“What?”

Martin had bitten his lip to hold back a laugh. Jon looked absolutely _mystified_. Fair enough, he’d decided, turning to take the satchet out of his mug.

“Tea,” he’d said brightly, turning back to face him, mug in hand. “You sound like you’ve got- something big, to ask? Might be easier if you’ve got a reason to sit and talk, you know?”

Jon’s upper lip had done that little curling thing again, and Martin had instantly regretted the offer, the unsure tone, everything. But then it had been Jon’s turn to bite his lip and duck his head in a nod almost shyly, and Martin had raised an eyebrow until Jon had picked out a tea, and then minutes later, tea steeped and prepared, they’d both sat down at the little unsteady plastic table next to the counter.

“So,” Martin had said, mind a bit steadier now that he had his bearings on the conversation. “Um. What exactly did you need my help with?”

Jon had taken a heavy sip of his tea-- a small involuntary smile curling at the edge of his lips, Martin had noted triumphantly-- and exhaled.

“You _are_ Martin Blackwood?” he’d started, and Martin hadn’t been able to stop the scoff that slipped past his lips.

“Yes? Sorry, what--”

“Elias sent me,” Jon had interrupted. “To get more practice. Feeding. Before I’m allowed to become a regular patron of the Institute.”

Martin had stopped mid-sip.

“And he sent you to _me_ , specifically?”

He hadn’t been able to believe it. Elias-- Elias _knew_ about his past; he’d been working here for seven years but never in-- surely that couldn’t be enough to--

“Yes,” Jon had said, cutting off his train of thought. “Is that a problem?”

“Um, no? I mean-- maybe, I guess. I just-- sorry, what do you need exactly from me?”

“I’d have thought it’d be obvious,” Jon had said, and his voice had been dry as bone-- Martin’s first thought had been that he should _not_ have liked it.

“Well,” he’d said, snapping a touch more than he’d intended, “Pretend I’m about five and just- lay it all out for me, okay?”

Again, Jon had looked like he was about to up and leave-- and again, he’d taken a deep breath and continued.

“I- I’m _unstable,_ I suppose you could say. I don’t have _control_. My feedings tend to be messy, involved things that have put the humans in question in more than a little danger. Elias, fairly enough, refuses to put a member of the public at risk, donor or not, and as such has given me an ultimatum: learn to control myself, or face losing patronage from the Institute.”

He’d let out a huge breath, then.

“I… can’t afford that. And in any case, I don’t _want_ to continue to be a danger. The more I can learn to minimize the risk involved, the better for everyone.”

Martin had pushed his mug closer to him, at that. He’d leaned back in his chair thoughtfully as Jon gratefully took the warm cup into his hands.

“Okay,” he’d said. “Okay, I could’ve figured most of that out-- I mean, I’ve _heard_ the gossip--” Jon had winced-- “But, I guess I don’t see where I come in?”

“Elias said you’ve been here a while.”

“Yeah, seven years-- but I don’t usually do… feedings? Mostly admin, really.”

“Right.” Jon hadn’t looked up from his mug, staring into his tea as if he’d find answers in its surface. “Right, I understand.”

He’d stood up promptly, pushing his chair back behind him with a god-awful screech.

“Thank you for your time.”

Martin had blinked. And then, scarcely thinking, he’d leaped to his own feet, suddenly eager to set this man at ease. 

“Hold on--” he’d said, trying and failing to keep the urgency from his voice. “I didn’t-- I didn’t say _no._ ”

It had been Jon’s turn to blink, then.

“Look, I don’t understand why Elias singled me out to help you. And I’m not going to lie and say I’m not-- nervous. There are ground rules we’d have to set, at the very least. But I’m not… against it, necessarily?”

Jon had stood there, regarding him silently for a moment. Martin had gulped, instantly worried again that he’d said the wrong thing, or managed to be rude, somehow. Mucked it all up. But then, all at once Jon had relaxed, practically liquid as he flowed back into his chair.

“Everything would be on your terms, of course. You’d-- I’d need your assistance. It’ll be a sort of tutoring, in a way.”

Martin had bitten his lip again, then tracked the way Jon’s eyes immediately followed to where his teeth broke skin.

“Right.”

Jon’d shifted forward onto his elbows, then, smiled widely enough for Martin to see the spike of his canines.

“Excellent.”

  
  
  


That had been almost five months ago. Now, Martin thinks, watching Jon trying (and failing) to maintain his posture on the floor of his flat, third glass of wine in hand, he can’t help but suppress a smile. They’ve come so far from that initial hesitant meeting.

Over the last one-hundred and fifty days, they’ve developed something of a bond-- it’s hard not to when one of you is drinking the other’s blood on the regular, Martin supposes. Still, it feels strange to think that only a few months ago, this man, with his dry humor and endless knowledge on the strangest of topics-- and, Martin notes, perpetually hungry stare--was nothing to him except another Institute shill. It had only taken about a month to get Jon to start coming out of his shell; he thinks that might be a record. Turns out he’s got a personality outside of _rude_ , and while he’s not a fan of spiders or John Keats, they’ve found shared interests in tea, music, and the rest of the poetic canon.

He’s much better at the whole feeding thing, too, now-- Martin’s been getting the sense for a while now that they won’t need to keep up their arrangement for much longer. 

_Which is a good thing,_ he reminds himself. Vampires conducting live feedings outside of designated centers aren’t taken to well in London these days, and Jon’s hardly the type to go and stick up some lone pedestrian. Without patronage from the Institute, he’d most likely starve. 

Not that he, Martin Blackwood, would let that happen, but then again he’s only one person, and he’s got a job? He _might_ be able to sneak some samples out, but hardly enough to be sustainable, and besides, Elias would surely catch on within a matter of weeks--

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jon calls, smiling, from the floor.

Martin’s entire body warms. He’s grinning, he knows, large and stupid, but it doesn’t matter through the rose-colored haze of the wine, and especially not when he’s got Jonathan Sims on his floor, over by his coffeetable, looking far more attractive than ought to be legal.

That’s the other thing. The thing he’s been trying to ignore. The part of him that turns jealous whenever he thinks of Jon being a regular patron at the Institute, coming in to drink from whichever curious individuals decide the money or the desire to know what being fed on feels like is too much to resist, has been steadily growing since about month two, and it’s getting harder and harder to tamp it down with every passing day.

Jon probably won’t even look at him once they’re done with their sessions, at best because they simply won’t cross paths. He’ll probably forget Martin’s name within a year or two, go on living his life outside the Institute. And he’ll be better off for it, Martin knows, but that doesn’t make accepting it any easier.

“Oh, nothing much,” is what he tells Jon. “Just thinking about you-- your progress,” he hastens to add.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” he says, taking the opportunity to pour himself another glass. He’s not usually one for reds, but Jon prefers them, so he’d figured he could deal with a bit of sourness for one night. In compromise, he’d bought the sweetest red he’d been able to get his hands on: Black Muscat, a rare find at his local store.

“Good things, I hope,” Jon says, the wine taking off some of his usual dry edge.

“ _Obviously,_ ” Martin says, rolling his eyes and taking a long drink. 

…

Maybe the wine’s giving _him_ Jon’s sarcasm.

“Let me,” Jon says, reaching a hand out, and Martin blinks a couple of times before he realizes what he’s asking.

“Oh,” he says with a little cough, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach. “Really, Jon, you don’t have to-- this isn’t a lesson--”

Jon cuts him off with an affected pout, and okay, that _really_ shouldn’t work--

“I want to. What better way to show Elias how _wonderful_ of a teacher you are?”

Martin bites his lip. Jon needs to shut up _immediately_ if he wants him to survive this night.

Out loud, he keeps it simple, changes tack:

“Actually, I’d been meaning to say-- I was thinking you should go up to Elias sometime this week. Ask him for an assessment.”

Jon blinks up at him from the floor. _Christ._ He bites his lip again.

“You think I’m ready?” Jon’s voice is-- there’s a strange note to it, something Martin can’t quite place. He brushes it off for now.

“Yeah, actually! You’ve been doing so well lately--”

“And what if I don’t agree?”

Martin shrugs, tries to keep it as casual as he can while two glasses of red in.

“That’s what Elias is for. He’s the head of the domino chain, after all. If he says no, we can just keep working at it. But you’re brilliant. So.”

Jon goes silent, at that. Something in Martin tugs at him; this is quite possibly their last night together, and he doesn’t want to waste it on awkward tensions.

“I mean it,” he says, stubbornly insistent. The wine must be lending him some courage. “You’re bloody brilliant, you are. You’ll be ready.”

He thinks he hears Jon inhale sharply; isn’t sure because he’s already shaken it off, is reaching for the bottle in Martin’s hand, his own apparently empty.

“Need another glass,” he says, making little grabbing motions with his palm. Martin thinks that if his heart goes any softer, he might as well serve it on toast in the morning.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asks, mostly teasing. Jon’s tolerance, while not high, is greater than Martin’s will ever be.

“Empirically not,” Jon says. He gives a proud little sniff as he reaches out for the bottle again.

Out of pure instinct, Martin pulls the bottle away, towards his chest, laughing even as he does so.

“This is _my_ bottle, you horrible man! You’ve finished yours already; now all you get is water.”

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon says, heavy and belaboured, and Martin shakes his head even as his heart flips at his name dripping with so much affection from Jon’s mouth. Grinning, he puts the bottle to his lips, drinks deeply.

“There. All mine now.”

Jon watches him for a few moments, then, sensing his opening once Martin’s lowered the bottle, lunges forward. Martin reacts just in time, pulling the bottle high out of reach, and, momentum propelling him, Jon tumbles clumsily into his lap, still attempting to grab for the wine. 

Martin colours immediately, and he prays Jon doesn’t notice even as he takes the opportunity to observe him. His hair is wilder than he usually allows, rumpled from all the rolling around and whatnot he’s been doing on Martin’s floor. His eyes are dark and wide, and he’s blinking more than he does usually. His skin is too dark for Martin to detect any kind of flush, but it’s warm under his thumb when he takes Jon’s wrist gently and lowers it from where it’s smashed into his chest.

Jon’s eyes flutter, tracking the motion, and Martin has to remind himself that _it’s the blood, it’s the increased heartrate_ that’s leading him to push in closer to him, wine bottle all but forgotten in an instant. Jon tilts his head back, baring his neck, and Martin takes a moment to admire the elegance of it all. He’s taking a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes again, his eyes are huge, dilated beyond anything Martin’s ever seen before.

“Let me,” he says again, taking Martin’s other arm with his free hand and working the bottle out of his fingers. He sets it to the floor, no longer interested in the contents, readjusts himself in Martin’s lap so that he’s straddling his crossed legs.

“ _Jon…_ ” Martin says, biting his lip yet again. “You _really_ don’t have to--”

Jon shushes him with a finger against his lips and he nearly goes cross-eyed from trying to follow the movement. His own breathing is coming shallower, he notices. Hopes Jon doesn’t notice.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want me to,” Jon says, gently. His voice is earnest; Martin is certain he’d stop in an instant if Martin asked him to. He keeps quiet.

Jon ever-so-carefully raises his fingers to catch Martin’s chin. He guides Martin’s head into a tilt, exposing the right side of his neck, and they’ve done this a million times before but it’s never felt so intimate. His fingers are so warm, press so lightly against him, and it catches at Martin’s breath even as Jon brings his other hand up to tug back a bit of his shirt, opening up even more skin for him to sink his teeth into. Martin swallows, closes his eyes.

Jon runs a thumb over his skin, catching at old wounds-- old bite marks, ranging from faded and pale, shiny pink to the angry reds of recent scabs. They’re all his. One is particularly vicious, and he lingers over it, remembering. It had been one of their first feedings, when he gave it, back when he’d still been all messy and clumsy and barely reined-in desperation valiantly trying to fight the pull of Martin’s blood. His eyes had been huge, Martin remembers, like little dark planets pulling him in with their gravity. 

Martin shivers into his touch, feels himself arc into it, crossing his fingers they’ll be able to write it off as the influence of the wine in the morning. Jon’s grazing is gentle, near soothing, and his hand works its way up until it rests at the junction between neck and jaw. This time, Martin’s sigh is involuntary.

That’s the thing about Jon, see. His control may have started off iffy, but he’s _never_ had a problem with enthrallment.

Martin’s head is half-pillowed on Jon’s shoulder by the time he finally leans forward to close the gap with his mouth. The familiar sting comes first, pulls a slight gasp from his throat, and Jon slides his right hand up into his hair and rubs soothing circles into his scalp. His left tightens against the back of Martin’s neck, and Martin’s eyes flutter before closing again.

He can feel Jon’s warm breath, unusually wet, exhales coming in little puffs against his skin as his teeth latch into him. They’ve been doing this for long enough that having him at his neck feels normal, feels _right_ , and Martin keeps still as night to keep him there. If he concentrates, he can even feel the transport of his own blood, flowing from his body to Jon’s mouth. It brings a heady rush and burning to his ears, makes him wonder how he was ever supposed to not fall in love. Jon makes a small noise, a quiet thing, just the tiniest acknowledgement of pleasure, of affirmation, and Martin finds himself pressing forward to try and coaxe it out again.

Jon continues drinking for a while. Beyond the initial pinch, there’s no pain; vaguely, Martin wonders against the warmth whether he can pick up on the alcohol in his blood. Could Jon get drunk off of Martin? The opposite is true, he knows. But that’s a separate thing, he reminds himself hazily. _Less literal._

With impeccable self-control-- somewhere, in the back of his mind, Martin is _so_ proud-- Jon licks over the wound, draws back. He studies Martin as if he’s a job still unfinished, and Martin stares back, mouth slack, hoping and praying he’s successful in keeping his eyes from dipping down to Jon’s lips-- only to catch _Jon_ in-- a flicker of something, a quick dart of his eyes to _Martin’s_ mouth, and he feels his throat go dry even as Jon leans back towards him-- _is this happening? Is this going to happen? Is Jon--?_

And then Martin’s hand jerks ever-so-slightly in some strange spasm of a reflex, knocking over the half-full bottle of Moscato in the process. Immediately, the spell breaks. Both he and Jon scramble to right the bottle, the latter scrambling up and off of his lap, and Martin flees to the kitchen the second he’s free on the pretext of grabbing something to clean up the mess.

He hyperventilates briefly over the sink, then returns with a wet towel, hands trembling as he goes to scrub at the stain. Jon hovers, offering to help but unable to find a way to be of use, and it grates and grates the longer it goes on. Eventually, he puts his foot down, banishing Jon to the squashy loveseat opposite and finishing the cleanup himself. 

Throughout it all, Jon alternates between glancing at him when he thinks Martin’s not watching-- the joke’s on him; Martin _always_ is, now more than ever-- and looking literally anywhere else in the room, eyes lingering on the cheap trinkets on Martin’s tiny bookcase as if puzzling out the secrets of the universe.

“You did well,” Martin says eventually, if only to break the painful silence. Reasserting the role of tutor seems like the right thing to do, he reasons, brings back a veneer of normality to the living room.

“Is that right,” Jon says, sounding horribly sober for a man who most certainly _isn’t_.

Martin bites his lip. 

“Mhm,” he says, not-unconvincingly, still not turning entirely to face Jon, scrubbing at the carpet as if he’s actually getting anywhere with the treatment. “Great, actually. Elias’ll probably pass you with flying colors.”

There. Appropriately distanced, while remaining invested in the outcome.

Jon doesn’t say anything in response to that, and the room is once again filled by a long, painful silence. Martin winces internally. Everything seems to be going wrong, all of a sudden. He bites his lip again, and this time he breaks skin. 

He hears Jon’s intake of breath before he sees it, _feels_ his eyes zeroing in on the breach, on the singular, fat drop of blood threatening to squeeze out. Clearly, he hadn’t taken enough, earlier; that had been more for show than anything. Martin could stick his tongue out, lick the blood away-- it would be so easy; he knows Jon would never bring it up-- but, maybe because of the wine, maybe out of pure stubbornness, he doesn’t. Lets the blood bead out across his lip, lets himself enjoy the way Jon’s gaze is riveted to his mouth.

And then--

“ _Come here,_ ” Jon all but growls, voice low and demanding, tinged with frustration. Martin’s halfway across the room before he even knows what he’s doing. 

Jon’s on him before he even has a chance to ask, palms flying up to cup his face with a gentleness that doesn’t match the intensity of his expression. Martin feels himself lean into the touch, embarrassed even as he warms to his toes.

“What happened to self-control,” he murmurs. It’s not even really for Jon’s ears.

There’s a long, heady silence in which Jon runs his thumb over and over across Martin’s cheek. Martin stands over him, hands braced on either side, head fully tilted into his touch, heart hammering, nerves thrumming in anticipation of what’s coming next. The tension in the air is thick; possibly not even a knife could breach it.

“Forgive me, Martin,” Jon says, finally, voice delightfully hoarse, and Martin thinks he might combust right then and there, “But I’d like to kiss you, now.”

Yeah, okay. Martin thinks his legs actually give out a little, judging from the way he all but collapses into Jon on the couch. Jon actually laughs at this, a bright and sparkling thing, and Martin’s heart takes a little carousel trip inside his chest.

“If that’s alright with you,” Jon adds, a bit unnecessarily at this point, Martin thinks, and his own voice is horribly breathless when he says,

“G- Get on with it, then.”

“Right,” Jon says, now equally as breathless, and then he’s pulling Martin down onto him, and it’s-- well, it’s not _perfect_ ; they’re both drunk and it’s a bit sloppy, lips not quite slotting together, one of Martin’s arms trapped between Jon’s spine and the back of the couch. 

But it’s pretty damn close.

They readjust and rearrange until they’re fitting together, and Jon’s tongue swipes out at Martin’s bottom lip, catching that drop of blood in the process. He bites down, after, tugs a bit, and Martin chases the feeling, sighing into Jon’s mouth in a decidedly unprofessional way. Jon takes it, breathes it, turns around and gives it right back to him, nose against nose. 

He feels Jon’s pleased smirk more than he sees it; nips back a little in retaliation. Jon’s one hand remains firmly tangled in his hair, resting against the edge of his cheek while the other runs lightly up and down Martin’s back, eventually coming to linger at his hip. This is unfair. He wants to wrap Jon in his arms, do the same for him, fingers in hair, at his back. He catches Jon’s wrist with his free hand, holding it with the same affectionate care as earlier. 

Drawing back, he leans his forehead against Jon’s, warm breaths mingling in the space between. Pulls Jon’s wrist to his lips, presses a gentle kiss to the delicate skin, traces light patterns with the tip of his tongue. Another intake of breath from Jon-- and he leans back down, sets his mouth back above his. Now that he’s paying attention, over the initial shock of doing this, _kissing Jon,_ he can taste the wine on his tongue, all undertones of cinnamon and violet combined with what must be simply _Jon_.

He tastes the blood, too, thinks he finally understands the appeal of the heady combination of iron and wine. This time, when he pulls back for breath, he notices how red Jon’s mouth is stained, and the observation sends a little thrill running through him. That’s his blood in Jon’s mouth; that’s his wine. They suit him. They’re Jon’s now, Martin decides. Whenever he wants.

It takes several cycles of drawing back, sitting and looking at each other for the briefest of moments, then leaning in into kisses all over again, but eventually, he extricates his arm from behind Jon, and they sit in the low light of Martin’s living room, doing nothing but holding each other and listening to the beat of Martin’s heart. 

It’s a comfortable silence, a cosy one, and Martin would be content to just sit like that forever, bone-tired and glowing with happiness-- if they didn’t both have work the next day.

“Jon,” he says quietly, half mumbling into his shoulder. “Jon, we should-- mm, bed.”

“Hmm?” Jon says, blinking sleepily, and Martin feels something fond spread over his face.

“Bed. Don’t wanna fall asleep on this thing; our necks’ll never forgive us. Mine ‘specially, prob’ly. ‘Least let me make it up.”

He hears the slur to his words even as he slithers off of the couch and to the floor. It takes a Herculean effort, but he manages to drag himself to his feet in about five more minutes, and he holds out his hand, intending to yank Jon to his feet. Instead, Jon takes the opportunity to pull him back down onto the couch, and he goes with a startled laugh.

“ _Jon,_ ” he says, suddenly more awake. “Mm- we should…” Jon cuts him off with a quick kiss to the neck, right above the spot he’d bitten earlier. Martin melts.

“Okay,” he says. “‘Kay. Five more minutes. Then we go up.”

“Mm,” Jon acquiesces, smiling into his neck. “Five minutes.”

* * *

They wake up in the morning to Jon’s horrifying alarm, predictably stiff-necked and sore from the other’s elbows and knees-- but, Martin thinks, as he watches Jon’s eyes blink blearily open before landing on him and softening, _entirely worth it._

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> find me @justasmalltownai


End file.
